Only a Fantasy
by sosmitten
Summary: Inside Christopher's head. Post Merry Fisticuffs.


**Disclaimer:** I'm not even going to try to claim him.

**Author's note: **I've been wondering for a while what could possibly be going on in Christopher's head. This is my attempt to figure it out. Big props to **Lula Bo** and **iheartbridges** for taking a trip inside his brain to give me their thoughts.

* * *

He's finally got what he's always wanted. He's got his dream life, his dream family, his dream girl. And yet…

It isn't quite how he thought it would be.

At first it's hard to pinpoint exactly what makes Christopher uneasy, because they're here, living in her house, being married, and turning themselves into a family. And they're just little things, he tells himself, nothing worth making an issue about. But they're there regardless: the way she keeps moving his toothbrush around as if she can't quite figure out where it fits, the way she stops herself sometimes when she's about to reminisce about Rory's childhood, and the way that she alternates between high energy and strangely quiet but never seems quite comfortable.

He tells himself that he's being ridiculous, that he should feel lucky he gets to be with her at all.

So he brushes off her hesitation about eloping. She just wishes Rory could be here with them, he rationalizes. When she's nervous about him going into town with her, he lets her reassure him. But the longer they live together, the more time they spend learning what it means to be married, the harder it is to ignore the little clues.

When they'd first gotten together again, he'd let himself have glimpses of the future, of grandchildren running through the yard as they watched, sitting hand in hand on the porch. Or evenings curled together in front of the fire, with him running his fingers through her hair as she sighs softly next to him.

And they do curl up on the couch, but when they sit together now, watching movies or television, he finds himself counting the minutes until she breaks the silence with a joke or a comment. She can make it almost from one commercial break to the next, but lately he's stopped keeping track.

He reminds himself that she's just as giving in bed as she's always been, a willing and adventurous partner. But after they've made love, she doesn't run her fingers over his skin in an effort to savor the moment. She doesn't snuggle up next to him and talk to him about everything and nothing.

They don't really talk about anything, he realizes, at least not anything important. Household things sure, like where to put his stuff, what to have for dinner, and how to prioritize their season passes on the new TiVo. But why she looks pensive when she thinks he's not looking? They don't talk about that.

And they don't really talk about their disagreements. It's a stretch to call them disagreements, really. But in their day-to-day decisions about things as minor as whether they need to get new cookware, or how to rearrange the furniture in the bedroom, they don't always agree. He can see her hesitation to change things, but when he asks why, she gives in and lets him have it his way.

It's gotten so noticeable lately that he's started to push a little more, just to see how much she's willing to give to avoid a fight. She lets him put _CSI_ above _Grey's Anatomy_. She lets him upgrade the television in the bedroom. She lets him replace her VCR with a DVD player. And she thinks she wants another kid, as long as it's not right now.

And it's just starting to get to him – the way that she gives in, fighting back against her own uncertainty. He tries to ignore it, to not wonder what it's about, until she comes to him and tells him that she'll do the wedding vows at her mother's party if it's that important to him.

She's on her way out the door to the inn, having just filled up her travel mug with coffee, when she tells him. He's sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper, having just told her goodbye and given her a kiss.

She's already turned to go, when she turns around, takes a deep breath and says, "So, I, uh, told my mother to go ahead with the vow thing. I know that you thought we should so it's okay, I guess. I told her we'd just do whatever is traditional. So, I just wanted to tell you." The words are casual, but her body is tense, as if poised for escape. "Okay, I'll see you later."

She's turning back toward the door when he says, "Lor, wait."

"What?"

He can feel the crease in his brow, and the dubious churn in his stomach. "Are you sure? You seemed pretty adamant. Are you sure you want to do this?"

He watches her swallow, watches the determined set of her features when she says, "Yeah, it's fine." And really, that's the last straw - watching her put on a determined face and steel herself to agree something that she really doesn't want to do. That's when he realizes how far she's willing to go to pretend that she's happy. And it's when he realizes he doesn't want to pretend anymore.

He lets her go that morning, doesn't push her, but instead waits until they've sat down to dinner that night to say something about it, to start to put his concerns into words.

He'd thought that when she'd come to him, broken, that he could pick up the pieces and make her happy. If he's honest with himself, he knows that he's been the one more invested in this relationship, that he'd probably pushed her into it a little too quickly. That she'll maybe never want him as much as he wants her. He'd thought that he'd be happy to have her anyway he could, that he'd be content to love her a little more than she loved him back, that he could wait for her to fall in love with him.

But she's as in as she can be and even he can see that she's settled for him. She's committed to being with him, but she's not content.

He'd thought he could live with that – that if that were the price of getting to be with her, then he was willing to pay that price. What surprises him more than anything is that he's finding he's not willing to settle for being the guy she's settled for.

She's just finished her salad and raved a little bit about the pasta sauce he'd made, when he asks nonchalantly, "Why didn't you want to do the vows?"

She stills, her fork stopping in the air halfway to her mouth, and she says, a touch helplessly, "I said I'd do them."

He can't help getting a bit sarcastic. "Yeah, as if you were being sent to your own personal torture. But why don't you _want_ to do them?"

His tone has put her on the defensive and she retorts, "I told you, and I told my mother, we're already married. It's unnecessary."

He wonders if he'd really thought that she'd answer his question, if she'd even understand what he really wanted to know. Because what he really wants to know is much more important than winning an argument. "I know that. You said that. But why don't you want to do it? Why don't you want people to see us take our vows?"

She puts her fork down on her plate and stares at him, unbelieving. "Why are we arguing about this? I said I'd do it."

"I know you did," he admits, dropping all bitterness from his voice. "You took a deep breath and agreed to it. But Lorelai, you don't _want_ to, and I've got to wonder what it means that you feel that uncomfortable about saying our wedding vows again."

"What do you want from me?" Her voice is pleading, asking him to drop it, asking him not to force her to face what she won't admit.

"What I _want_," he says, his voice pained, "is for you to tell me that you can't imagine life without me. I want you to tell me that you dream about us growing old together."

"Chris, you know I love you."

He shakes his head, brushing her words away. "I want you to look me in the eye and tell me, and if you can't…" he takes a deep breath, "then we don't belong together."

"We're…I'm trying to make it work."

He doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until she speaks, and even though he'd known she wouldn't be able to say what he needs to hear, he has to close his eyes when she responds, because he doesn't think that he can say what needs to be said if he's looking at her. "If you really wanted to be with me, you wouldn't have to try so hard." And maybe that's the saddest thing of all. That's she's trying and it's still not enough.

"So, what are you saying?" she asks. He can see fear in her eyes and it's surprising to him that she's so afraid of losing this when he's convinced she doesn't truly want it. Her voice drops; it's weak and thready. "Don't you want to be with me? Are you…" He can see her struggling to get the words out. "Are you telling me you want out?"

He shakes his head and says firmly, "No, I'm not going to do that for you. You're going to have to make that decision."

Her eyes go wide as it sinks in that he's serious, and the fear makes her sound desperate. "But, we're _married_, Christopher. I love you. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Do you?" he asks, then he lifts his shoulders in a hopeless shrug. "Maybe you do, but that doesn't mean to you what I need it to mean."

She looks back at him, unwilling or unable to respond and he just picks up his plate and sets it in the sink before he walks out of the kitchen.

He'd told her he'd wait eighty years for her. It turned out that he didn't want to wait. He thought he'd be glad to have her – that finally making her his would be the fulfillment of a long-held fantasy.

It turns out that dreams aren't all they're cracked up to be.

_Fin_


End file.
